The breeze blew softly across the running water. Michael eyed a spot near the other side that was begging for his lure. He clicked the button- his plastic grub and weight dropped a bit. He rolled his wrist back, the pole angling in just the right motion. With a quick flick and release of the button the grub went flying, missing his intended target by a few feet. Michael frowned, but nevertheless began his slow and methodical return across the river.

That was terrible, you can’t even cast right.

Michael tried to quiet his inner voice, focusing instead on his line and feeling of the pole. As the line inched ever closer to the shore, he could feel the lure and hook bobbing through the underwater vegetation. He contemplated speeding up his return to attempt another cast, but inside he could remember-

“Patience Michael, reel it in the right way every time.”

Grandpa Donald always stressed the importance of patience and doing things the right way, and Michael always tried to keep that virtue. Yet as he stood there inching closer to the shore, he just knew that there was no hope of this cast yielding any luck. As the grub came into view from under the surface, Michael confirmed this suspicion.

Reeling up the grub, Michael sighed at the sight of some waterlogged weeds caught on his hook. He carefully reached out to the still dangling hook, barely balancing the plastic bait in his palm while using his fingers to clean off the hook. After again having a clean hook, Michael began to set up his next cast. Undeterred from his previous bad cast, he launched out the lure. This time he landed almost right on the spot he aimed for.

Perfect.

Michael once again began his slow and methodical return. This time he could barely notice the vegetation. He could feel his breathing and the breeze blowing as he continued, but not a single ounce of resistance on the line. He briefly closed his eyes.

What a good day.

The peace of this moment had been something that Michael had looked forward to all week at work. It never failed that after a perfect cast to feel so much overwhelming calm. It amazed him that something as simple as casting out a line could bring out so much emotion. There was only one thing that could bring out more-

Wait, was that-

The thought trailed off as he felt the curious nibble of a yet unseen fish. Michael held his breath and focused his attention on the line. He felt another nibble. He muttered to himself, hoping that the fish would take the bait. Suddenly there was a strong bite, and in the same moment Michael pulled back the pole, setting the hook in firmly.

Michael reeled the line in, occasionally having to whip the pole in different directions as the fish fought hard against the line. It was futile for the fish, but every hard turn and pull on the pole invigorated Michael. He could tell from the ease of the fight that this fish wouldn’t be a record setter, but he would be an alright size.

Suddenly, the surface began to bubble around the line. Michael could begin to see the wriggling silver body. It appeared to be a decent sand bass on the other end of the line, and Michael was intent on reeling it in. It continued to fight all the way to shoreline. Michael reached down and retrieved his catch.

About time.

The fish was about thirteen inches long, weighed about three and a half pounds, not too bad considering it was Michael’s first fish of the day. He was able to retrieve his hook without using his pliers, and after putting it on his stringer, Michael began to set up for his next few casts.

The sound of rustling to his right side was his first tip off that he was being approached. Michael stopped working on his pole and looked up. He saw Jon approaching, clutching something big and heavy in his left hand. As he got closer, Michael realized it was the bucket Jon had brought.

“Did you get one finally?” Jon asked while grinning smugly.

Michael grabbed his stringer and held up his catch, smirking a bit. “I did.”

Jon whistled, “That’s not too bad.”

Michael motioned to the bucket, “I take it you are doing alright?”

“Got about twelve.” Jon said without hesitation.

“Dang man, what are you using?” Michael was impressed by this and embarrassed by his own lacking number.

“Green grub, but I don’t think bait is your issue.” Jon mentioned this jokingly, but Michael couldn’t help but feel the smug tone Jon had taken. Jon must have sensed Michael’s annoyance, because he quickly backed up and pointed to the spot, “The river is too fast through here, you need to find a calmer spot.”

Michael observed the surrounding river again, and noticed the river was running a bit fast. “Do you really think that’s the issue?”

Jon nodded, “Yeah, you’ll have better luck back down the river where I was.”

Michael looked around the spot again, realizing that perhaps he had made a mistake.

Dang it.

Jon pointed again back down the path he had trotted, “Seriously, it’s not too far of a walk back that way.”

“Where at?” Michael shrugged, admitting defeat.

Jon smiled, “Big tree over the river, you can’t miss it, I am just dropping off my fish in the ice chest, I’ll be back in a minute.” With that Jon turned back towards the direction of the trucks.

“Thanks,” called out Michael.

The water was much calmer, almost still. The breeze was much lighter as the tree coverage was much thicker. Tall reeds and grass covered the shoreline and ends of the section, but near the east end was a clearing with a massive willow tree. The clearing itself appeared to be well treaded, with the tell-tale markings of folding chairs, ice chests, and liquor bottles dotting the edge, just barely poking up over the foliage. While it clearly wasn’t a secret fishing hole, it was calm for the moment.

Michael had approached the tree when initially looking for a spot to cast out. The tree was impressive from a distance but was much grander up close. The base of the tree was a few times bigger than Michael, with two major branches that hung over the river. The lower of the two was nearly level, allowing for a brave soul to climb up a few feet, and walk out over the river. All the minor seemed to be at the end- a product of past brave souls wanting a better view of the river.

He contemplated walking up on the tree, but he observed a fishing pole and a tacklebox in a muddy spot a few yards away from the tree- Jon’s spot. Not wanting to steal his friend’s fish, Michael walked around some nearby reeds and found a similar spot. His first few casts didn’t yield much, but by the sixth cast, he was reeling in another bass. By the time he had heard Jon approaching again, he had caught his four from that spot.

“Any luck?” Jon hollered from a distance

“Oh yeah, much better!” Michael hollered back.

The disturbance of the brush got closer and closer until Jon popped out of the brush. He wasn’t nearly as encumbered as earlier, the benefit of having an empty bucket.

How long will it take him to fill it up this time?

Michael couldn’t help this thought- Jon had always been the better angler. While there was a twinge of jealousy to this thought, Michael was quickly brought back to his line- another bite.

This time the fish wasn’t a great fight, and it was quickly secured on the stringer. Jon had stayed back for a minute to observe the catch, giving a smug nod.

“See, calmer water is better,” Jon said, “how many are you at now?”

Michael held up the stringer, “Up to six.”

Jon grinned, “We just might feed the whole camp tonight.”

“Just as long we get them cleaned,” Michael said tossing his fish back into the water, “my electric knife is on its last leg.”

Jon started walking back to his spot, “Well, we could always do it the old-fashioned way.”

Yeah, I know how straight your cuts are.

A few years back, Jon and Michael had attempted to filet some catfish they had caught. Michael had watched as Jon attempted to run the filet knife, which had made jagged nuggets out of what should have been some very nice filets. Of course, when it was Michael’s turn, they could barely even be called nuggets. Michael had since bought an electric knife and knew that Jon had not practiced since that day.

“Do you have someone back at the camp that can do it?” Michael asked as he cast out. There was a bit of silence and the sound of another cast coming from Jon’s direction.

“Oh,” Jon started, obviously focused on his pole, “maybe Brother Randy?”

The lure returned to Michael. He had almost forgot that some of the older men might be willing to filet the fish. One benefit to these church campouts is that there is plenty of people willing to help, granted you might have to hear a little scripture and give up a bit of your fish. Michael hadn’t quite reached the point where he enjoyed a lecture on scripture.

Just leave me alone.

“Yeah, he might be a good one,” Michael muttered, casting out, and missing his intended target.

A splash came from the other side as Jon reeled one in. Laughter erupted, and Michael had to peak around the reeds. On the other end of the line was an especially small crappie. Jon turned and showed off the tiny fish like he had just reeled in a monster, “World record right here!”

“Nice, get the Guiness people out here,” Michael chuckled.

After a few minutes of casting out, Michael heard Jon sigh. “Michael, let me ask you something.”

Michael cast out, “Sure, what?”

“Do you think you’ll get baptized?”

“Um, what?” Michael was caught off guard, his reeling lost its rhythm. He didn’t know if it was the question or the sudden seriousness in Jon’s tone.

“Well, you know,” Jon stuttered, “all the preaching last night.”

Michael and Jon had both attended the prior evening’s camp meeting. To Michael it had been all the stuff he had heard growing up: you can’t make it to heaven if you aren’t baptized, you’re going to hell if you sin, you need forgiveness. The usual.

Michael had grown accustomed to hearing it every Sunday. As a boy he went to church with his Grandpa Donald, but he had slacked off a bit since he had gotten into his teenage years. It really wasn’t something he had thought too hard about.

Just leave me alone.

“I mean,” Michael muttered, “maybe one day. Like, not today or anything, but maybe someday down the line.”

“Oh okay,” Jon sighed again. “I just, I don’t know. Last night just kind of keeps replaying in my head.”

Michael turned to Jon, “Are you thinking about getting baptized?”

Jon stood silently, breathless, still. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” Michael shrugged, “okay.”

“What’s your hold up?” Jon asked.

Are you serious right now?

“You know that story they told about the eunuch?” Michael remembered this much about the subject.

“Yeah,” Jon said.

“Well, I don’t know if I believe the way I am supposed to in order to get baptized.” Michael hoped this would be sufficient

“Oh, I see.” Jon quietly returned to fishing.

Curiosity got the better of Michael, “What about you?”

Jon was startled, “What?”

Michael pressed him, “What’s your hold up?”

“Oh, I believe,” Jon nervously laughed, “I just don’t know if I can live it.”

After that, the two teenagers didn’t talk a whole lot. Michael had gotten hung up from letting up his steady pace, and Jon’s casting was getting slower and slower. Eventually Michael could hear Jon closing his tacklebox with loud, distinctive clicks. A short time later, Jon was gone.

Alone, Michael tried to refocus on the fishing. He would cast, and reel, and occasionally get a bite. It didn’t take long for Michael to begin to lose track of time as he fell into his fisherman’s rhythm. Cast and reel. Cast and reel.

“Are you thinking about getting baptized?”

Shut up.

Suddenly a snap occurred on the cast. The line, frayed with the bites of all the fish and the snagging weeds, came undone in an audible snap as the grub and weight went flying across the river.

Great.

Michael looked to his tacklebox and found that he was down to his last grub.

Nice job moron, you should have gone to the store earlier.

Shut up.

Michael fought with himself as he carefully tied on the new hook. He took care to make sure that it was secure, not wanting to have wasted both a good hook and his only grub. As he worked the grub onto the hook, it brought back memories of a time when he was on a pond with Grandpa Donald.

“But grandpa, what if I lose this one?” a young and insecure Michael asked.

“That’s okay, it just means we’ll be done today,” calm and loving, Grandpa Donald.

“But I don’t want to be done!” pleaded the young boy.

“It’s okay, everything has to end sometime,” Grandpa handed the little boy the pole, “just try to make this one last as long as you can.”

It had been five years since Michael had been fishing with his grandpa. Dementia had started to set in after Grandma had died, but Michael didn’t realize how bad it would be at the time. His dad was the one that told him that he wouldn’t get to go fishing with Grandpa no more. Michael knew that things hadn’t been quite right on their last few excursions, asking questions several times in a row, calling him his dad’s name, things like that. It wasn’t until he seen his grandpa crying out for his grandma while there for a Sunday dinner that Michael began to realize the weight of dementia.

Sorry Grandpa.

With the hook secured and the equipped with the last grub, Michael cast out once more.

“Make this one last as long as you can.”

I will.

While the cast was perfect, a surprise gust of wind caught grub, sending it flying into an unknown section of the river. Michael gritted his teeth, knowing that all that it would take to end his fishing trip would be an unseen-

No, not now.

The line was caught, and by the resistance, it was probably a log.

“No, no, no,” Michael kept repeating as he fought and struggled with his line. He tried everything he could think of. Popping the line, getting closer and pulling, but nothing.

So much for this trip.

But I am not ready yet!

Michael struggled, but it was in vain. There was nothing he could do.

“I hate fishing!” screamed the little boy, angry at his caught line.

“Hold on,” the calm and collected Grandpa spoke, “hold on.”

“That’s it, I am tired,” the tantrum continued, “I am ready to go home.”

“Have you tried praying for it?” Grandpa took the pole from the little boy.

Angrily, the little boy fired back, “Yeah, and nothing happened!”

Sternly, Grandpa looked at Michael, “If you prayed like that it’s no wonder nothing happened.”

With that, Grandpa knelt, fishing pole in hand, and closed his eyes.

The memory grew fuzzy, but Michael remembered how Grandpa prayed with such humbleness, how he begged for the release of the lure. It was the prayer of someone that truly believed in God and that he heard him. A prayer that Michael wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to pray. Yet, he also remembered-

“Grandpa!” Michael exclaimed, “How did you do that?”

Grandpa held up the fishing pole, complete with the intact hook and lure. “I didn’t do anything, God did this for you.”

“You really think God did this?” Michael was still excited, but he was intrigued by his Grandpa.

“I know he did,” Grandpa said smiling.

“How come?”

“Because I prayed that God would help you believe.”

Here he was again, standing at the edge of water, staring down an impossible to retrieve line. He looked out at his line again.

“Are you thinking about getting baptized?”

I don’t even know if I believe.

The battle raged in his head, when a slow, cool air blew over him. The breeze had picked up again, but this time it brought cool relief over Michael. When a new thought occurred.

Try it.

Michael sighed.

Couldn’t hurt.

Michael took the pole in his hand and mimicked the motion he had seen his grandpa do all of them years ago. He closed his eyes. Then he spoke, softly.

“God, I know I haven’t done this enough, and I am sorry. I know I should be quick to get down and pray, but honestly God, I don’t even know if I believe. But for this moment God, I relinquish this line to you. If you are up there, then please let my fishing hook come back.”

Opening his eyes, he pulled hard on the pole, and suddenly it came loose. Excited, he reeled back the line. His excitement quickly turned to anger, realizing that his line had been broken again.

Well, I guess that settles that.

Disappointed, Michael sat back down. He hadn’t realized it, but he had been crying since he got down to pray. He finally let it out, sobbing uncontrollably on the shore.

Why did you do this to me God? I just wanted to fish! I just wanted my grandpa back!

The last time he saw his grandpa, Michael had come on a good day. Grandpa had been sat in a comfortable chair and wasn’t crying out that day. After a bit of apprehension, the frail old man smiled weakly at his family. It was clear that he didn’t recognize the strangers in front of him, but he wasn’t going to turn away friendly folks. His family tried telling him about what was going on in their lives, but each tale only met with more confusion.

Michael had tried to tell him about his latest fishing trip, about how he had nearly caught a snake that had mistakenly bit his line, and how he managed to cut the line before it got any closer. While it was clear the story was somewhat entertaining to the old man, the lack of recognition that Michael felt was too much for him.

Grandpa Donald died a few days after that trip. That had been just a few months ago. At the funeral, Michael had served as a casket bearer, while his dad got to tell the eulogy. Michael noted that the only reference to fishing was one throw-away line towards the end of the obituary. To everyone else it was just a little hobby- to Michael that was the single most important thing in the world.

That’s not fair.

“Everything has to end sometime.”

But I didn’t want this to end.

“If your prayed like that it’s no wonder nothing happened.”

Even from the grave, Grandpa knew how to cut Michael short when he needed to. Then another thought came into his mind.

“Because I prayed that God would help you believe.”

Grandpa didn’t care about the fishing, he cared about spending time with him. He didn’t care about his fishing pole, as much as he cared that he believed in God. Yet, Michael stood there, unable to fish, and unsure whether he believed in God.

I failed.

Broken, Michael sat down on the shoreline.

“Are you thinking about getting baptized.”

“Maybe one day.”

Maybe not.

Michael closed his eyes.

“God, help me believe.”

He had been sitting there for a few moments when felt something touch his boot. Reflexively, Michael pulled back his feet and opened his eyes- fully expecting to see a snake or a branch at his feet. Yet what he saw was a little bit of soggy weeds. Embarrassed by his reaction, he reached down to throw the weeds back out into the river. Then he felt it-

Ow, is that a hook?

He looked down, at his now bleeding hand. Stuck in his thumb was a plastic grub and a hook.

It can’t be.

But it was. Michael examined the newfound grub and hook, and seen that it was nearly in perfect condition, save for a little piece missing near the head end of the grub. He started to tie onto the hook when he remembered-

“God did this for you.”

Michael quickly closed his eyes, “Thank you God.”

Michael began to cast when another thought occurred to him.

“It’s okay, everything has to end sometime, just try to make this one last as long as you can."

Closing his eyes one more time, Michael found himself praying again.

“God, I know I am not very good at this, but please help me believe with this cast.”

Opening his eyes once again, Michael cast out. Once again it was a perfect cast. But as the cast went forth, again, a gust came through and blew the grub back where the log was.

Oh no, not this again.

“I prayed that God would help you believe.”

God help me believe.

Michael reeled with the rhythm that he had grown accustomed to. As the line neared where it had the last time, he felt his stomach drop. Then, inch by inch, his line crossed over the spot where he lost his last line.

Just as he cleared that section, he felt a massive pull on the line. It was a bite, but much stronger than any of the other bass he had caught that day.

What have I gotten myself into?

The pole whipped back and forth, and Michael fought hard. Unlike all the previous fish, this monster was wearing him out. As the pole went to the left, Michael would lean to the right. Suddenly it jerked him the other direction.

It was fight, one that Michael had never been in before in his life. The beast had to be extremely heavy, something unlike anything he had caught that day. It was during one the jerks that Michael felt something pop, it felt like something had come dislodged in his shoulder. Though it was painful, Michael held onto the pole for dear life.

“God help me!” exclaimed Michael.

It felt like hours. Michael would reel on the pole, and the fish would jerk. His dislodged should burned like fire, but his determination did not wear thin.

“God help me!” exclaimed Michael again.

Finally, the water near the shore began to bubble, and Michael could make out the distinct shape of a giant channel catfish. Michael again prayed and using the last of his strength, pulled the monster to shore. The thing was massive, at least thirty pounds. A true monster of a catch.

As he went down to retrieve the lure, the line broke again. While he contemplated reaching down into the throat of the catfish to get hook, he thought back on his grandfather’s words one last time.

“Everything has to end sometime.”

In that moment Michael decided his fishing trip was over. When returned with the catch to the campout, he was swarmed by many of the church members asking him about the catfish. While he enjoyed telling that story at the camp, it was a lot more special years later when he was telling his own grandson about the time that he learned to believe in God.

Four years. It took four years of sweat, effort, and time to get where I am now. Learning and studying, I strove to begin the career that I found myself in. It is a place where I feel a desire, and it is a place where given more time, I will likely be a master of my craft. For a man that not too long ago was a boy feeling lost, that is all I had ever wanted. Sure I had the girl, and sure she was content with where I was, but I could not rest unless I knew for certainty that I could provide for her.

Four years. That's how long my wife begged me to relax from my pursuit, and to simply live a bit more carefree. After all this time, I still can't calm, for there is more yet to achieve and strive for. There are bills to pay, bigger dreams to achieve, and it simply cannot wait.

Four years. That' how long it took to receive some news. A little mix of my wife and I was growing. In that instant I knew the journey had all been worth it, I felt like everything was coming together.

Four weeks. That's how long we were going to wait after finding out. After that we were going to let our families know. Oh I could barely contain, and I wanted to scream from the roofs of our happiness of that little girl. I know it was so early, I know there is no telling at so early, but I felt it in my bones.

Four minutes. That's how long it took me to write an announcement post. Not for the baby that grew, but for my career that was blossoming. I wrote it with a hand near where the baby grew. My wife was almost jealous. I told her that a few more weeks and we'd have something even better to tell.

Four seconds. That's how long it took to ruin that. In a moment of blood soaked agony we lost that hope. One moment, a baby, the next, nothing. My wife screamed and screamed. I looked on completely dumb, there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do.

And it was in that moment that I knew. I would have traded four and forty more years for just a moment with you. To hold you with your momma, and to tell you how much we loved you - you who we hadn't even met yet. If we ever do get to meet you, in some heavenly place, please forgive me for those four years I wasted, I would have given them all just to hold you, even it was just one chance.

What are we angered by?

It seems to me,

an angry guy,

that cameras lie,

in times we die,

while pullin dimes,

from sullen eyes,

and swollen chimes,

of darkest rhymes,

in darkest times,

and angered lies,

and hangman ties,

witness tried,

no one kind,

biggoted mind-

now pause-

and take away,

our deadly frames,

from hallowed dames,

and freckled names,

singers tame,

and linger lame,

deaf and mute.

Think about it,

Our singers sing,

and rappers rap,

about many things,

endlessly,

but our thinkers think,

and no one learns,

our pipers pipe,

and no one sings,

it seems to me,

speaking oh so humbly,

that the singer who sings,

and the rapper who raps,

knows no thing,

as they go,

endlessly,

down rabbit holes,

with their rabid holes-

so now then.

What are we angered by?

Endless rhymes,

in times we die,

from toothless swine,

angered by,

senseless crimes,

and glossy eyes,

wanting our dimes.

Madness Eh?

You want to solve madness? Ok, let's talk about madness. It's not hard to find. Just turn on your television, and tune into the news. Politicians are crooks. Entertainers are perverts. Kids are running over their parents. People are blaming either side of the political aisle for the problems, and all of them are just a bumbling mass of angry nays.

Madness Eh?

Isn't it mad that instead of worrying about the future for our posterity, we are only worried more and more how to get things we "deserve?" How about the madness of instead of worrying about making good grades and getting a good job we are worried instead of how professors and speakers have hurt our feelings? What about some real madness like the fact that our kids have to go to school and face the fear of some mad man with a gun, and then instead of receiving the care and sympathy they need, they get turned into political weapons. How about the madness of the late night "prophets" that sit around insult the religions of the kids and the nation in order to push an agenda against owning firearms, while the opposite end of the spectrum is too scared of losing their firearms to come to an agreeable conclusion.

Madness Eh?

How about instead of us constantly getting mad at each other, at every belief, at every little gnat, why don't we focus on ourselves? We cannot change the world, only ourselves.

What do you fear most? Perhaps its external like spiders, snakes, or clowns. Perhaps its internal like some unseen force within the human mind, or the rationality of a mind that lacks sanity. This is a character that  I feel is externally creepy, but what makes her horrifying is the internal part. You cannot tell how she reaches the horrifying conclusions that she reaches,  but you know the disgusting effect.

This character is from a short story that I have been playing around with and brainstorming, and though some aspects of the story tend to change, this character is constant.

Context, the protagonist of the story is a young husband who has been fighting with his young wife due to his fears of fatherhood and the anger over the changes he perceives as negative in his life and relationship with his wife. It is early on in the story when his internal struggles have been hinted at through an argument with his wife and some internal monologue that we meet... her (henceforth known as Jane, though the name is not final).

Jane is a college student on spring break with a rather large group of friends at a campsite in the mountains of Colorado. She is young, not much older than 20, roughly the same age as the protagonist's wife, and she is pregnant, very pregnant. She has wavy blonde hair, red shorts, white shirt, sunglasses- very typical for a college student, except this is a woman that looks like she could give birth any day. She seems to be happily enjoying the company of friends, but there is something off about her. A pregnant woman about to give birth should not be camping with what appears to be a frat and sorority camp-out. Nor should the uncomfortable amount of affection she has been receiving from several of the young men. Nor should she seem to demand the attention of the young women in the group. And they are quite strange, making strange animal noises and laughing. It's as if this group were a pack of dogs, and that Jane is matriarch.

Due to the pregnancy, Jane and the young husband's wife begin to converse upon the role of motherhood, the wife taking a stand against the recklessness that Jane is partaking in. During this conversation, we the audience learn that Jane seems to be quite level headed, and perhaps she is not the matriarch, but rather the prize  of the whole group. But it is when Jane starts to describe her affinity for dogs and cats that the audience begins to feel something is extremely off with Jane. It is like a long lost perverse attraction for beastly things has been awoken within a regular college girl.

Much further into the story, after learning more about the husband's inner turmoil, and after the disappearance of the college kids and the family pooch does Jane's setup become relevant again. The husband discovers the group deep within the woods where he realizes that the college kids were in fact furry deviants who practice taboo lust within the forests. It is here that we see Jane again, and the deviants are around her as she give birth to a child. She lets out a weak gleeful laugh as she instructs the furries to do something that is gut  sickening with both the dog that was stolen and the child that was just born. Unfortunately I will not discuss the details further, as it would spoil the entirety of the ending of my short story, but such is sufficient to describe the importance of Jane.

Though most of the themes of the story deal with the fear of dealing with people who have an alien belief and the dangers of seeking pleasure over responsibility, Jane represents a fear of change and parenthood. Here is a young woman that reminds him of his wife before she was married (not the animal part, just young and happy). It is when she give birth that she fully realizes her evil, and completely corrupts her child. Thematically, the protagonist is scared that his wife will change into a different person that doesn't love him and she will corrupt any children they have into despising him as well. Jane being the prize of the furries also could be thematic of the animalistic tendencies that humans sometimes prize while disguising them as sophisticated developments that should be treasured, such as violence or (in this case) sex.

In the end, I cannot say we will ever learn more about Jane's inner workings, as she is not the focus of the story. I can say that with the direction my story is going, I don't know if I want to know how Jane works. All I can say is that  she is probably one of the more significant figures  within my short story.

Old man in foreign space crying.

"Where am I?"

A stranger answers.

"Your home, grandpa."

To the most beautiful girl in the world I write this- the penance for my sins that ended what was the best years of my life. I was always so thickheaded when it came to discussing the issue- I am so sorry because I let my pride and fear get in the way of being honest and open. I am sterile. I couldn't bare to tell you, as the very mention of little you's and me's running around our little house brought such a shine into your eyes. So now you know what I hid that rainy night when we fought so bad, you storming out after I refused to open up. Now there are plenty of little you's running around, but I'm nowhere to be found.